LYCII)A 8: 437 Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorfelefs deep Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas ? For neither were ye playing on the tleep, Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the (baggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva fpreads her wifard ftream Ay me 1 I fondly dream Had ye been there, for what could that have done ? What could the Mute herielf that Orpheus bore, The Mule herfelf for her inchanting fon, Whom univerfal nature did lament, 6u When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His goary vifage down the fltrea.nn was fens, Down the fwift Hebrus to the Lefbian fhore ? Alas ! What boots it with inceffant care To tend the homely flighted fhepherd's trade, 65 And aridly meditate the thanklefs Mule Were it not better done as others ufe, To sport with Amaryllis in the fhade, Or with the tangles of Negera's hair ? Fame is the fpur that the clear fpi'rit doth raife (That laff infirmity of noble mind) To fcorn delights, and live laborious days ; But the fair guerdon when he hope to find, And think to burft out into fudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred (hears; 7 And flits the thin-fpun life. But not the praife, Phoebus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears I Fame is no plant that grows on mortal foil, Nor in the glittiring foil Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumor lies, But lives and fpreads aloft by thole pure eyes, And perfed witnefs of alljudging Jove As he pronounces laftly on each deed, 0110 much fame in Heav'n expet thy axed, Bbbb 0 fouatairt
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy OTcyMjk=